The Pirate and the Gentleman
by Division
Summary: Pre-POTC, When James Norrington is held prisoner aboard the pirate ship "Dead Soldier" at the hands of the clever and seductive Iron Mary, he is whisked away on the adventure of a lifetime.
1. Chapter 1

_Stranded!_

Of course James was angry that he'd he been beached on a desert island for three days with nothing but his wit, training, and some loose driftwood; but none of his anger with any of these things could match the infuriation with the bit of flotsam that had accompanied him on the journey. It had griped, complained, kicked, scratched, bitten and made a general fuss about the whole ordeal. This sort of behavior wasn't uncommon for a prisoner under his command—in fact, he was usually immune to such an attitude—but this _thing_ was just completely out of control. She should understand her place, he reasoned, because in his mind, this was all her fault.

Where could the pesky slut have run off to now? She obviously couldn't have gone far. The island was, at his best estimate, five miles around. It almost didn't qualify as an island. It was more or less something of an enlarged sandbar, rearing its pathetic head out of the chilly blue Atlantic waters like a demon that hadn't grown its horns. The greenery was sparse, a few trees here and there, some ferns, a little moss. It was a clump of rock and seaweed threatening to be swallowed up by the surrounding ocean.

He sat on the beach, bare toes just over the tide line, the waves lapping up against his feet only to return again to the vast expanse of blue from which they had arrived. The pale white sand glittered and sparkled like a million microscopic diamonds. Too bad they were worthless, or he might have been able to bribe the wench into helping him find a way out of this secluded corner of hell. But now she was out of sight. Who knew, she could be sneaking up behind him with a knife, ready to kill him—or do worse things to him that he didn't even want to think about. Stupid whore.

_Guess I'm going to have to find a way off this island by myself,_ James thought, picking up a handful of sand and letting it fall back down from between his fingers. Why, oh why did he have to be the one stuck on this island? Why couldn't it have been Sparrow, or Will? Even Gillette would have been better at dealing with the ruthless bitch. She'd be the death of his insanity. He just knew that if he survived this ordeal, he would never be the same again. In frustration, he rose to his feet, tore off his coat, and threw it to the ground angrily.

"Dear God," he roared, tossing his head back, "why have you forsaken me? I didn't do anything wrong! I've gone to church! I do right by my fellow man and serve justice to those who disobey the law. Please let this be a dream! Don't let me die here. Don't let me…"

By the time his thunderous rant was concluded, the Lieutenant was on the ground in dejection, sobbing miserably into the dirty, worn-out sleeve of his white blouse. James pounded a fist on the ground weakly. He was going under. This was it. He was done for, he would die without carrying on his family name, and worse, stranded on a deserted island with no one but a filthy street weasel to laugh at his corpse.

"Baw, get up, yeh pathetic excuse fer an Englishman," came a voice from above him. It contained a disgustingly thick, feminine drawl. James, amidst his sobbing, automatically recognized it.. The thief kicked him in the side of the abdomen— hard. By an act of reflex, he threw out his left hand and grabbed her ankle, giving it a sharp twist. She went toppling over backwards, hitting the sand with a thud, followed by a good string of profane words that a civilized woman would never dream of saying.

James, in his state of hysteria, quickly grabbed her shoulders and pressed them to the sand, crawling over her so that his body was above hers and his back parallel to the ground— it probably looked rather awkward from a third person's point of view and certainly would have felt that way to James if he were in a normal state of mental comprehension. The pirate squirmed under the much stronger man's weight but he maintained his grip on her. She spat in his face. He glared at her through an eye full of saliva.

"Pathetic? _Pathetic?!_ You're the reason we're in this mess! If you hadn't escaped from jail, so that we wouldn't have had to deport you… I don't know why I just didn't hang you on the spot," he growled contemptibly.

"Yer too nice," she replied, surprisingly coquettish for the position she was in, lifting her hand and brushing her fingertips against his arm. He grabbed her face roughly, fingers pressing into her cheeks.

"You're a worthless scoundrel."

"And that means yer a worthless soldier," she muttered through fish-lips.

James was silent. He despised being insulted. She continued.

"Yer jus' a lieutenant. There's plenty o' others like you hopin' ta get promotions. They ain't gonna send out the whole Royal Navy just ta find yeh. Yer _expendable._" She laughed, touching a finger to his nose and pushing his face away. He released his grip on her and stomped off in a rage. He hadn't even bothered to pick up his coat. He wouldn't ever openly admit it, but it was true. He was going to be forgotten. No one would come for him. This would be the end of Lieutenant James Norrington!

No. He wouldn't let himself think that way. He was going to get off of this island somehow, even if it meant doing it alone. He walked about ten feet away, and then suddenly turned to face his island inmate. She was still sitting in the white sand, a smug expression plastered on her face, hand combing through her oily red hair. James stood there for a while in revolted contemplation of the situation at hand. He could walk away, or try to bribe the bilge rat to help him get off this abominable island forsaken by God. He considered the second option briefly.

No. Never would he let himself be in cahoots with a villain. That would be an act against the Law, the King, and all things Holy! Suddenly, there was a shot from behind him. James looked down to see a reddish-black splotch on his shirt, and the blood was spreading, soaking through the fabric, dripping onto the ground. He turned around and stared at the woman who was holding the aimed gun. None of this was making sense now. He slumped to the ground as an inky blackness surrounded him.


	2. Chapter 2

James woke with a start, falling off of the rotting wooden bench that he had been sleeping on and hitting the filthy, wet floor of a ship prison cell. He clawed at the ground and lifted his head as he tried to remember where he was. "A dream," he breathed in exhaustion. "It was just a dream. A bad nightmare, and—oh, God…"

He was still a captive— not on an island, but on the pirate ship _Dead Soldier. _The name almost seemed to scream his fate. His hair hung limp around his face, which was caked in mud and had now grown a layer of stubbly brown hair on the muzzle. He clambered to his knees, crawling through the nighttime darkness in the approximate direction of the door, and after fumbling around for the metal bars, latched hold and hoisted himself to his feet. He was cold, hungry, and weak.

"Hey! I'm pretty damn hungry," he yelled angrily, rattling the wrought-iron cell gate on its hinges with what little strength he had left. It felt quite rusty but didn't give any hint that it might be able to be pried from its foundations, especially in his physical state. _Christ._ After much shouting and clanging, his eyes had adjusted to the light, and a large man, a full head taller than himself and hulking with muscle, shouted back from the corner where he was keeping sentry over the cells, even though James was the only one in there.

"Shut up in there!"

"Can't I just have some goddamn bread?!"

"Go back t' sleep, you twit!"

"I am hungry as hell," roared James, letting his tongue run wild. He was starving. His stomach gave an agonized gurgle.

"I said _shut up!_" the guard snarled, losing his patience, hurrying over to James's cell and giving him a hard punch in the nose. The lieutenant was so weak that the blow sent him to the floor, blood spurting from his nostrils. He wiped it away from his upper lip, but it was replaced by a trickle of more blood. The bridge of his nose throbbed in pain.

"What in the bloody hell is going on down here?!"

The voice, which held the same unmannerly drawl as that of the woman from the dream, caused silence to fall upon both prisoner and guard. James could see from the corner of his eye a pair of tall black riding boots making their descent down creaky wooden stairs, followed by a pair of feminine thighs, torso and finally the sneering face of the pirate from his nightmare.

"Cap'n, the prisoner… he was—"

She strode arrogantly over to the large guard, shoving him out of the way roughly with the heel of her palm. He cursed under his breath but did nothing to stop her advancement to the edge of the cell, where she peered in at James with a snakelike glare.

"Unlock his cell, Bubba," she ordered, standing to the side of the door and gesturing toward the lock demandingly. She dug the heel of one shiny black boot into the waterlogged floor. The guard gave her a questioning look but needed no second bidding to carry out the order as quickly as possible. The rusty door creaked open, finally resting against the barred wall with a clang. The woman walked in and stood there, hands on her hips. James stared up at her with contempt, holding a hand under his bleeding nose. "Pitiful thing," she sighed, shaking her head. "Get up."

She jabbed him in the stomach again—like the way she had in his dream, but _much_ harder. However, he wasn't in the physical state to be twisting ankles and giving people half-Nelsons, so he had to comply. Like a kicked dog, or maybe a meek child, he fumbled to his knees, then too his feet, using the iron door for support. His nose was still throbbing, and the pain had spread to his forehead. It felt like a migraine.

"The bleeding will stop," she said, reaching behind her and lifting a pair of shackles from a nail on the wall. She gently latched them around his wrists. He so desperately wanted to kill her, the salty wench, but he hadn't a gun or sword, and he was much too weak to tackle her. Even if he'd had the strength, he wouldn't have tried it with the guard standing there. He looked as though he could easily snap James in half.

"You must be hungry. You'll join me in my cabin, won't you?" The smile on her face made James feel sick. He could only guess what a woman like her would want with a man such as himself—and it couldn't be good, to say the very least.

Through chapped, blood-covered lips, he muttered, "Insolent whore. I will never lie with you." The pirate didn't seem fazed by this at all; on the contrary, she looked rather satisfied, as if that were the answer she had been expecting. She ran her fingers across his stubbly cheek.

"You think too lowly of me, Lieutenant. Come. We will dine." She turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs. Bubba punted the base of James's neck. Why did everyone feel the need to hit him? He was already following the horrible woman up to the deck.

The sky was a light lavender color, streaked with orange and pink cirrus clouds that brush-stroked the sky like a divine masterpiece. The water was a black silhouette against the red, half-circular sun on the horizon, and a few of the brightest stars were awakening from their daytime slumbers. James estimated the time of day to be roughly nine thirty in the evening. He hadn't eaten in forty-eight hours.

"Here we are," said the woman, rounding a corner and pushing open a wooden door with a fancy metal handle. He could only guess that the ship had been stolen, because it was much too fine to be the handiwork of a normal ship builder. Perhaps it was a royal ship or a navy war vessel. It displayed expert craftsmanship in every aspect of its design.

James was led into the captain's cabin, where it became apparent to him that this indeed was a commandeered ship. The floors were made of cedar planks, and the furnishings were of oak and dark pine. The chairs had deep red cushions, some faded by sunlight, others hidden in shadows and dusty. Golden compasses, spyglasses and navigational tools were strewn about in a rather disorganized fashion.

There was the sound of a closing door behind him, and he turned around to see the pirate facing him, her back pressed up against the door, hand removing a metal key from the lock. She dropped the key into her pocket. He was locked in with the filthy rogue.

"Now then," she said coyly, sliding into a cushioned officer's chair at the opposite end of a small table like a mink, "won't you sit down?" Her face was home to a fiery expression that reflected the color of her red hair. Or perhaps, thought James, it was the other way around. James sat awkwardly in a chair similar to hers, though not as elegantly carved. He placed his bound hands on the table. "Tell me—"

"I suggest you release me," he interrupted, raising his eyebrows in a snooty way, "or you'll get no information."

She looked a little surprised, but hid it as best she could as she removed another key from her pocket. She carefully unlocked each metal band and threw the shackles into an open pine chest behind her. James rubbed his wrists, glad to be rid of the metal burdens.

"Are you—"

"Wasn't there something about food?" he asked. The woman looked undoubtedly annoyed, but complied. She pushed her chair back and stood, moseyed over to a crate, removed the lid and took out an orange. She tossed it his way, and returned to her seat.

"Now, as I was saying," she continued, locking her fingers together and resting her chin on top of them, "Tell me, are you enjoying your voyage?"

_The nerve,_ he thought as he peeled the orange with his fingernails, feeling his cheeks flush. He bit his bottom lip, staring at the fruit he was about to eat. "Please spare me the sarcasm. What do you want with me, _Slipknot Susan?_"

"So you do know my name," she lifted her brow for but a second. "I have a little business proposition." She leaned across the table in his direction, walking her fingers near his arm. James looked at her suspiciously, chewing on the piece of orange in his mouth. "If you help me, I will grant you your freedom. I promise you, I can prove to be an invaluable asset to you and your commanding officers."

James hadn't had many dealings with pirates in the past. He was still a bit young and naïve, so he listened intently, ready to save his own skin. "Go on…"


	3. Chapter 3

Mary shifted her weight in her chair to reach out and seize a rolled-up parchment on the table adjacent to the small one. The orange was reduced to a small pile of peels at the end of the table nearest the wall, in strange shapes uncharacteristic of orange slices; rather than having been cut into almond-shaped wedges, he'd merely pried off the rind with his fingers, taking a secret delight in the opportunity to be able to enjoy food without any civilized obligation. He was so famished that the orange was like a full Christmas dinner to his hunger-wrenched stomach.

She rolled out the parchment on the table before him, but as it was growing dark and difficult to read, she grumbled about the need for a lantern and hastened to retrieve one. James watched her as she searched for a lantern and a flame with which to light it. Her choice of attire was simple, if not out-of-place on such a bedecked military vessel, embodying her with a paternal façade which he suspected may have contributed to her outlandish nature. He could only wonder what sort of circumstances she had faced to bring her to this point—perhaps, as a child, she had been abandoned, facing the elements of street life, picking up the vile ways of dishonest men, or simply raised as a boy by a hyper-masculine father. Yet she did seem to understand that she was, in fact, a woman, and her sexual orientation seemed to be that of a heterosexual female; though, he thought, she could very well be attracted to either sex. It was indeed very odd to see a woman dressed in such a transvestite fashion.

She chose to dress herself in boots which rose up her calf, but they were not the same boots as those which were often worn by street-walkers in the filthier areas of large port towns or pirate retreats; they did not button up at the sides, and they were all black, not with a white overlay like a spat-style boot, and they did not have buttons on the outer sides; they seemed to be one full piece of jet-black leather, and they did not have heels. The top of the boots came over the bottom of a pair of cotton jodhpurs, obviously not dyed due to their non-uniform coloration and slight khaki tint. They were plain, and he supposed they were most likely to serve the function of heat reduction, to aide in the well-being under the ever-present Caribbean sun and humidity. They were thin, and curved around her legs with little variation for wrinkles. Her torso was covered by a white silk pintuck blouse with baggy sleeves that gathered about her wrists, which held a few simple bracelets. Her red hair was swept back by a dark green bandana, and loose strands escaped from behind her ears, each of which was home to a single silver hoop. A leather holster was slung about her waist in a pristine fashion, with pistol and dagger sheaths. Her outfit lacked the frilly, expensive, bedecked nature of other pirates. It was simple, functional.

Mary finally retrieved the elusive oil lamp for which she'd been searching, lit it, and set it on the table as a paperweight. She fastened the other side of the chart with her hand. The lamplight cast strange shadows of all the objects in the room. "The situation is this," she said cunningly. "Just before you were kidnapped by my crew, I had hired out a spy—a mercenary of knowledge, you might say—to man the _HMS Envoy _and retrieve naval information. When the ship was docked at Port Johnson, he deserted your crew and took with him information regarding the tracking of a certain pirate, whom the Navy has been desperately trying to defeat. I learned that your attempts were unsuccessful, and when I heard whom it was you were tracking, I was intrigued. The two of us have a long, drawn-out hatred for each other."

James tilted his head somewhat inquisitively. "You mean Robert Rackham?"

"Yes, otherwise known as Cutthroat Robert," she said. "He's my half-brother."

"How can you be sure?" he sneered at her, making light of the fact that quite a few pirates he'd encountered had almost no knowledge of their heritage or family ties whatsoever. Mary glared icily, perfectly aware of his mockery, but she brushed it off.

"You're quite amusing, Mister Norrington", she hissed sarcastically. "Shall I continue?"

"By all means," he replied with a smug expression, listening intently.

"Thank you. Now, at this location"—she pointed to a small peninsula on the map on the map—"There is a hidden alcove containing my father's personal treasure stash. And don't get any ideas, because only I know how to reach its exact location. Now, here is my proposition: you will join the Robert's crew, and learn his intentions for dealing with me; a heavy personal vendetta has ensued ever since my—our—father died. He gave me the chart before he passed away, and Robert's been bitter ever since, because he believes he's the one that deserves to know the location; my father's entire fortune is hidden in this alcove. He wants the treasure, but the only problem is that he doesn't know its location. He'll stop at nothing to gain this knowledge."

"And you're telling all of this to me… why?"

"A man with your military experience will prove to be a valuable asset. I want you to board that ship, much as I had a spy board the _Envoy_, and learn his ways, how he expects to betray me, how he plans to destroy me. Do whatever you can to gain this knowledge."

"And what's in it for me?" James leaned back in his seat.

"I will grant you your freedom to return safely to your commanding officers—provided you don't speak a word of this to anyone. And to ensure you'll stick by your word…" she trailed off. There was a movement of her arm at her side, and she procured a stiletto dagger, with a steel blade and brass handle. She made a gesture toward her right wrist, pretending to make a small teardrop-shaped marking on her forearm. James's eyes widened.

"Is this some form of oath?" he inquired, studying the blade intensely, as if it were going to suddenly leap from the air and lunge at him; he must be ready for a quick getaway. But, he remembered, the door was locked.

"Indeed," replied Mary. "This mark will remind you that you have made a promise to me. Break it, and you shall pay with your life."

James considered this for a moment. Pay with a bit of blood and a small, insignificant scar for the rest of his life? Or be killed? Of course he was going to choose the second option; though he would never readily admit it, even unto himself, he was a coward. "Alright," he said, rolling up his dirty sleeve and holding it out in her direction. "I'll do it." Mary smiled, holding the dagger daintily above his forearm, just below the wrist. He tensed as she brought the point nearer and nearer to his flesh, and then he felt a slight pain as the tip made contact. As she slid it in a teardrop-shaped path over his arm, a slight burning pain shot up his arm. He gripped the arm of his chair, gritted his teeth, and then, it was done. He wiped the blood from his forearm, just long enough to see the path that had been cut into it before the groove was refreshed with new, bright red blood. He quickly tore off a piece of his shirt and wrapped it around the wound.

Mary rose from her seat and unlocked the door. Gesturing into the darkness—the sun had set—she said, "You're free to go." James quickly stood and exited the room. He couldn't help but hear a slight snicker as he retreated below deck. The wooden stairs creaked and bent under his weight; all the men save for the ones on night duty were sound asleep, some in hammocks, others passed out against crates. He grimaced, revolted at the living conditions, as he navigated his way through the slumbering bodies to a spare hammock. James pulled off his boots and holster, threw them on the floor, curled up on the loosely-woven rope and fell asleep.


End file.
